


Frenemy Mine

by Couldbeamidget



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Good and Evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 21:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19980457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: This little ditty came about whilst I listened to Mandysimo13's lovely story "An Angel's Temptation", as a podfic created by the incredible, irrepressible Podfixx (Lockedinjohnlock).Yes, I've dared to stick my toe into the Good Omens fandom. Thanks for reading, I hope you like it.





	Frenemy Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mandysimo13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/gifts), [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/gifts).



"Angel," Crowley drawled, swirling the dregs of his Montrachet Grand Cru, "Are you ashamed to be seen with me?"

"What?" the angel squawked, almost choking on an oyster. "Excuse me," Aziraphale gurgled, blue eyes crossing. "Come again?" He wobbled slightly, pitching sideways on his chair, prompting Crowley to give his back a few hard thumps. One devilishly loud and wet coughing fit later, Aziraphale blinked back a few tears. Nodding his thanks, he accepted Crowley's proffered glass of water. 

"You heard me, don't deny it. You, with your ethereal hearing." Crowley reached for the bottle to pour himself a fifth helping. "I can't help it, Crowley," the demon mocked, his voice precisely matching Aziraphale's tone. "I'm an _angel._ Of course we're blessed with bloody perfect ears." He winked and smiled knowingly, _"It's in our nature."_

"Why, yes it is," the angel said primly, flicking masticated bits of bivalve from his waistcoat. "No need to be smart about it. And for goodness sake, I never ever use cheeky language." He gave a delicate shiver.

Crowley's eyebrows rose up to meet his fringe.

"Oh, you know which word in particular I'm speaking of. You're just trying to make me say it in polite company." 

Crowley snorted into his wine glass. "I doubt Gabriel would judge me polite."

"And quite rightly so, you...you trouble-maker," the angel sniped. "Needless to say, I was referring to the good patrons of this establishment." Emphasizing the point, Aziraphale flapped both hands in a circle.

"Let's get back to my original question, shall we?" Crowley said, rolling his eyes at the angel's histrionics.

"Which was? I quite forgot amidst all this balderdash."

"For Go-" Crowley cut himself off with a snarl. "Are you, Angel - in truth, mind - embarrassed by my nefarious presence?"

"For Heaven's sake, Crowley. What put that silly notion into your head?" Aziraphale attempted to soothe his friend with a comforting smile. He failed miserably. So did the smile.

"Well, for starters, you won't discuss my side _down there._ My unwitting fall into damnation and my serious lack of good sense. My anything. Consider this. Not once in all this time have I once heard you call me "Demon". As in like, 'Come, Demon, I've decanted a bottle of vintage port. Fetch a wheel of Roquefort, will you? There's a love. I've got crackers!'" Crowley sniffed.

"Which I am, by the way, a demon. Just get a good look at my eyes. Also, Angel, those pathetic pantomimes you use instead of actually speaking the word "Hell" are utterly ridiculous. You look like a moulting chicken affecting to take flight." 

Aziraphale's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Crowley had him there. Of course he'd noticed, the cheeky bastard. However, Aziraphale didn't like thinking of Crowley in those terms. The very thought of it made him very uncomfortable. He was an _angel_ , after all. He should be keeping better company. Gabriel suspected Aziraphale of his little dalliances with the serpent, but he'd no proof. Until such time, the angel would wine and dine Crowley as he pleased.

The de- , uhm, former angel was _such_ delightful company. He knew all the best restaurants, for one. And besides, they shared a history. Six thousand years of shared history, to be precise. And Crowley always made things so much more interesting. Six thousand years is an awfully long time to fritter away one's time whilst waiting for the Antichrist to grow up. As it was, the little tyke still wore nappies; blue ones, with yellow ducks. Aziraphale secretly thought them sweet.

"Close your mouth, Angel, you'll catch flies," Crowley sighed. "You and I both know you can't lie. Do you plan on sitting there gawping like a fish? If so, I've better things to do. There are three priests in Hampshire I'm expected to have a very long talk with." Pulling out his wallet, the demon threw two hundred pounds on the table. Remembering the wine, he added one of his many stolen Visa cards. He was pushing to his feet when Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's wrist.

Both immortals froze, Crowley's legs half-bent above the chair. Aziraphale blushed bright crimson at what he'd done. Immediately, he released his friend's wrist and smoothed down the lapels of his dinner jacket. "Forgive me, Crowley. I didn't mean to...that is to say, I shouldn't have touched you like that. It was horribly rude of me to stop you from, _er_ , your duties."

Legs collapsing, Crowley's arse plopped back to the plush velveteen chair. "I...I...Angel? I forgive you. It's alright, Aziraphale. Don't be upset." This last came as a result of the angel's mournful expression. Were those genuine tears in his eyes? 

"I'm not upset, Crowley. Whatever gave you such a silly idea as my being upset by your leaving?" Aziraphale blanched after mentally replaying his words. "See, we still have all of these very expensive oysters, and whilst I enjoy seafood, too much overindulging and I," he leaned closer to Crowley's face, "suffer a nasty case of indigestion."

The demon eyed him dubiously.

"I get gas," Aziraphale stage whispered. He hurriedly scanned the room, feeling caught out. No one seemed to have noticed, but that could have been down to Crowley's influence.

"Sod this," the demon grunted, shoving in one rubbery oyster after another. A mixture of garlic, melted butter, and something resembling snot dribbled down his chin to his lap. "I'm sorry I ever asked in the first place. It's obvious to everyone already. Pity the wayward angel who's lost God's grace. His CD player refuses to play anything other than Queen. He has spooky snake eyes he's forced to conceal, else small children run screaming in the streets. I'm a demon, Aziraphale, whether you chose to speak the truth of it or not. A _demon._ "

"Crowley," the angel dithered, "Oh, Heaven's to Betsy, how shall I explain how I feel in a way that you'll accept?"

The demon paused in his chewing. "Explain what?" he asked, spitting food. "Feel how? And who's this Betsy character and where does she fit in?"

"You see, my dear sir," Aziraphale winced, "I can't speak an untruth. But that's not the same as having you trust in my word. _Ahem._ There's no Betsy."

"Yeah?" Crowley muttered greasily. He scooped a glob of grease off his chin and inspected it. Disgusting. Annoyed, the demon wiped his hands on the table cloth. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but passed him a serviette without comment. Crowley took it begrudgingly. "Why wouldn't I believe you? You can't lie. Simple fact."

"Because, dear boy, You suffer from a woeful lack of self-esteem." 

Now it was the demon's turn to gape open-mouthed. "Self-esss...wait. Woeful What? How do you figure? I drive a Bentley."

"Owning a fine automobile is not the same thing as feeling good about one's self. I pray every day for a multitude of poor souls wealthy in finance, but not spirit." Aziraphale eyed Crowley meaningfully. "Do you see?"

"No, Angel, I do not. I have no spirit, Aziraphale, I'm a _demon!_ Isn't that the whole point of this stupid, useless conversation?" Crowley tossed the soiled cloth to the floor. "I'm an immoral immortal! I'm dastardly! Depraved! And here you are eating oysters...with _me!_ I'm the enemy, damn it. Bête noire! Why?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said earnestly "Can I..."

"No, Angel, you cannot. Now," Crowley said, balancing his elbows on the table, "you listen to me. Either you admit to me right here, at this restaurant, that I'm a demon, or I'm gone. No more fluttering fingers and meaningful eye rolls, yeah? Say the _word_ , Angel. Tell me what I am."

"Fine!" he huffed in indignation. "You want me to speak the whole truth, Crowley? Well, here it is, so perk those pointy ears up." Aziraphale's tears miraculously dried into nothing. The demon stared, a bit alarmed, his angel's eyes abruptly blazing a fiery electric blue. They reminded him a bit of the sword.

"You are my friend, Crowley, plain and simple. You are... oh, fine. I'll say it if I must. You, Antone Crowley, are a _demon._ Dee-eee-emm-ooh-enn. Demon. Happy now, Demon? You are snaky. You are slippery. You are a cad and rapscallion with a penchant for swish kit, and given to wearing too much cologne." The angel smiled apologetically. "Oops, I didn't mean to spill that last truth," he patted his lips. "One's toilette is a matter of personal taste."

Crowley blinked. This was not at all what he'd expected.

Greatly daring, Aziraphale took back Crowley wrist. "I never want to say so, my dearest scalawag, because I knew that it's beyond your ken. Being a demon isn't all that You are, love. You are _so_ much more than some ne're do well twisting little girl's heads in a circle." 

"Ehh..." 

"Somewhere in that lovely limber body of yours is a smidgen, say perhaps no more than two or three atoms, of goodness," the angel stated. "It's there. I can sense it."

"Ahh..."

"Crowley, if those particles of light weren't in you, then you and I could never have been anything other than enemies." Aziraphale patted Crowley's wrist gently. "But, we're not, in fact, mortal enemies. In fact, dear heart, we're best friends."

"So..."

"So. So shut it, you bloody imp, and finish off these oysters before I break wind."


End file.
